Countdown
by TheWestDriver
Summary: He is so thin now that he can disappear into nothingness. MurtaghxEragon. EraMur. Slash.


A/N: Language, violence, spoilers, and adult themes warning. This is a Murtagh angst fic full of slash daydreams and more sadness than you can tip your hat at. If EraMur offends you, steer clear of this story.

The lyrics at the beginning of every countdown number are the songs that somewhat inspired the oneshots in the first place. It's not a songfic, so feel free to skip the music if it's not your style. Also, these aren't in chronological order.

Reviews are much appreciated, and flames are only welcome if you shout "Brisingr!"

* * *

_**Countdown**_

**or**

_**The Ten Deaths of Murtagh Morzansson and Thorn Bloodscales**_

+ 10 +

_I believe them bones are me._

_Some say we're born into the grave._

_I feel so alone, gonna end up a_

_Big ole pile a them bones. _

"_Them Bones" - Alice in Chains_

Turning sideways in the mirror reveals the jutting ribs of Morzan's son. They poke out like cactus spikes from his skinny body, and he is beginning to notice how sunken his face has become. He is thin enough now that he can disappear into nothingness.

Murtagh has always been active and muscular, or lean to say the least, but his extended stay as the Empire's slave is wearing away at his body. And mind. And soul.

Especially his soul.

His once tan flesh has become pale like a fish's stomach, and the solitary torch has cast upon it an orange stain in his dimly lit room. Murtagh glows as he examines his nude form, and he thinks his cheekbones seem much too sharp when he furrows his brow.

Murtagh wishes that he were bundled in his warm bed, drifting far away from consciousness. Sleeping should be easier for him than staring at this shell, but he hates the visions that haunt him, so instead he stands naked in his cell-like room, glaring into the mirror and wondering about the last time he ate food that satisfied him.

_Tronjheim. With Eragon. Before the Twins, _he remembers. And as he glances at his spindly fingers, Murtagh realizes that he has begun to classify his life in two ways: with Eragon, and without Eragon.

Whether he was strong, or confused, or happy, or free, or hurting, these feelings either fall into the category "with" or "without." Happy times are always the former.

He thinks it is fitting that his younger brother grows stronger every day from his magic and training, while Murtagh withers like a plant in the dark. _In a wrestling match he would beat me with ease,_ he thinks.

He thinks it is also fitting that his new body is depraved and disgusting, while Eragon has taken the form of a lovely elf. The sallow-faced creature in the mirror looks like he has lived in a time of grief and wretchedness, a time without Eragon.

Murtagh lies back in his bed, closing his eyes from the torch's light. He curls on his side, hugs the skeleton's form closer, and wishes that his body would finish eating itself.

* * *

+ 9 +

_I need to believe,_

_But I still want more_

_With the cuts and the bruises._

_Don't close the door_

_On what you adore. _

"_Glorious" - Muse_

When they fly together, Thorn shows Murtagh images that cloud his thoughts. He lacks the eloquence of Saphira, but not the intelligence, and Murtagh is determined to teach him better ways to communicate. But for now Thorn is still stunted by Galbatorix's magic and his pictures are the only kind of speech he can manage.

And currently Thorn is howling like a dog, rapidly losing control of his flight, while Murtagh tries to pacify his unbearable pain. Flashes of color and wafting smells fill his mind.

He sees a memory, or what he assumes is a memory of a dream, because Saphira and Thorn are circling each other in the open blue sky. They are mating, Murtagh knows this because Thorn knows this, and it is the most beautiful thing that he has ever seen. They twirl in tandem, never losing eye contact during the course of their dance. And they come together so perfectly at last that Thorn cannot imagine such bliss. Saphira is so majestic, so hallowed, that he worships her blue scales and windy voice.

And when she turns to face him, he rips out her throat.

He tears her apart, staining the ground with blood that matches him in color. Thorn is sinking his teeth deeper and deeper into the last female dragon in the world, his most cherished object, and screaming as he does it. He cannot stop, and he cannot release his lover from his massive jaw until she goes limp.

Thorn is still howling when Murtagh returns to himself. He thrashes his wings and whips his tail and begs for his small mind to comprehend. And though he cannot truly ask his Rider, Thorn wants to know why he destroys what he finds most beautiful.

Sitting atop his dragon, Murtagh feels a familiar lump form in his throat. He knows this sort of nightmare very well. He says amid the roaring, "If they're broken, they're just like us." And this is something Thorn does not want to understand.

* * *

+ 8 +

_Cutting your feet on the hard earth running,_

_Show your scars. _

_Breaking your life,_

_Broken, beat, and scarred._

_But we die hard._

_ "Broken, Beat, & Scarred" – Metallica_

Zar'roc carved open Murtagh's back almost fifteen years ago, but Morzan's mark of ownership remains emblazoned on his body for the entire world to see. Galbatorix now owns the knotted flesh of his dead lieutenant's son, and on some days, Murtagh thinks that if he could heal his scar he could fix everything about his life.

He wants to open up his body, unraveling the lumpy disfigurement, and step out brand new with all of his best features and freedoms. He wishes that he could be magically transformed like Eragon into something elegant and shiny, so that people would stop recognizing him as the son of a monster. It enrages him that the bastard Durza has marred Eragon's back, but at least they have something in common, albeit something dreadful.

_But that's not true either. The elves healed him. _

The sheen of his gedwëy insignia catches his brown eyes during his contemplation. He clenches his fist to cover the silver hand, even though he should be proud to bear it.

The dragon-mark is another outward sign of his duty as a Rider. It too binds him to his younger brother, but not as he would have it. It exemplifies their differences, good and evil, and sets them against each other; it might as well be the signature of Galbatorix on his body. If not for his devotion Thorn, Murtagh would have cut the shining scar from his palm long ago.

He wants another kind of tattoo for his flesh.

He wants the marks of his brother's kiss on his neck and chest and stomach. Murtagh wants to stain Eragon's lips with wine and taste it on his tongue. He wants bright blue eyes to consume him like fire.

But he is marked by the Empire, by the dark King that he loathes above all else. Murtagh's plans are crumbling as he surveys his scars, knowing he is completely owned by the man he hates.

And all he wants is to be owned by the boy he loves.

* * *

+ 7 +

_Before you put my body in the cold ground,_

_Take some time to warm it with your hands,_

_Before it's coming to an end. _

"_Sowing Season" - Brand New_

His newest story takes place in black and white: they are on the Burning Plains, dueling with copies the same blade, Zar'roc, and Eragon wears his elven face that Murtagh isn't entirely sure he likes.

They clash, just as they had many months before, and they both feel the pulsing strength between them. Murtagh parries while Eragon sidesteps and counters, but they cannot land a hit on their opponent.

"That sword isn't yours, brother," says dream-Eragon. "You shouldn't have it."

And when he looks down, Murtagh sees that his blade has vanished. He cries, "What have you done? Where is my sword?"

"If you need one, you can take mine, Murtagh."

"Of course I need it! It's my weapon. My Rider's blade."

Eragon hands him Zar'roc, letting the sword slip away from his grip, and kneels before him in the grey sand. "I surrender," he says.

Murtagh steps backwards, dropping the miserable sword in surprise, and asks, "Why?"

"You want this."

"This what?"

"This sadness," dream-Eragon says sorrowfully. His blue eyes are bleak like the landscape.

"I don't want anything!"

Eragon rises, handing the sword again to his older brother. He says, "Do it."

"Do what?"

"What you should have done the first time," murmurs the young man. He comes closer, taking Murtagh's face in his hand and pressing their lips together. It is gentle and slow, and the passion grows like approaching thunder.

But Murtagh tastes blood in Eragon's kiss.

He pulls back and sees that his brother's face is twisted in agony: Zar'roc is plunged into Eragon's stomach, and the inky blood spills away from him.

He realizes without remembering that Zar'roc is misery, and Murtagh is the keeper of the beast. Morzan's blade would allow no love in its presence; it would rather bite and sting at heroes, draining the life from their lithe bodies. Eragon shudders and falls to Murtagh's feet.

And as he collapses beside Eragon's empty form, Murtagh chokes. The color of his world returns and he wakes in his bed, covered in sweat.

* * *

+ 6 +

_You'll go to hell for what your dirty mind is thinking._

_ "Nude" – Radiohead_

His body is pulpy and bruised. His mind is being rent open by the twin spellcasters as they revel in the shame he feels. He thinks he is so much stronger that this- this messy display of flaws, but they have an endless supply of power that he cannot overcome or identify.

They see his desires, both the righteous and the sordid, and he is fully aware that they are raping him. They draw out their sharp teeth when he moans and screams, but they continue plunging into his mind, not needing a reason to hurt him.

One draws a cold nail across his bicep and he vomits on the stone floor, tasting the warm acidity against his teeth. The Twins laugh simultaneously and Murtagh heaves again, trying to purge himself from their contact. The bald men are rooting through his latest daydream, a loving part of his imagination that is far too easy to desecrate.

_Eragon is mindlessly playing with Murtagh's hair as he lies between his legs. They are not speaking, but smiling, and the leaves around them make a handsome shelter. _

The Twins laugh.

"You don't know what he is, do you?"

Murtagh groans and thrashes against his bindings, daring the men to slur his thoughts of Eragon. Setting his mind, Murtagh decides there is nothing they can say to detract from his love. No cruel, mocking words can change his mind for he is steel-set and determined.

The Twins pucker their mouths, "And to think, you two look so much alike."

_Nothing they can say,_ he chants. Murtagh bares his teeth, splitting his cracked lips until they bleed. The bastards are making no sense to him.

"We know something about brotherly love, dear boy," one coos. They draw around him, tracing the leather straps that tie his wrists and ankles.

_Brother?_

Murtagh spits, "Liars!"

_No. No no no no no. NO. _

"He's your brother," they gleefully cheer.

The Twins laugh.

_My… ?_

"Morzan's two sons, fucking like cats in heat. Is he your little whore?" They come so close that he can taste their disgusting breath in his mouth. "It's bad enough to want a Rider that doesn't want you, but your own brother, Murtagh? You've sunk to a whole new low."

He whimpers, and the first of many tears slip away.

"Does he know about your dirty thoughts? Does he slide against you and wet his lips?" They whisper into his ear, "Does he ever let you watch him undress?"

Murtagh beats his head against the table and struggles to breathe as the Twins start casting spells. He knows what they are doing although he cannot translate the Ancient Language. He can feel the familiar burning sensation in the pit of his stomach and Murtagh knows what is coming next.

"Does he beg you to fuck him?"

Murtagh bites his bleeding tongue and imperceptibly shivers at the mental images they are making him envision.

The Twins laugh.

* * *

+ 5 +

_We can run away, leave this world behind,_

_The human race and this imaginary grace (I can see us breaking.)_

_Is there something more?_

"_Radiate" - Puddle of Mudd_

He tastes salty tears mingling with Eragon's wet lips as they stand under the pouring sheets of rain. Their brown curls are matted to their heads, moving only when fingers slide up to take hold of slippery hair.

Murtagh cries because Eragon is leaving forever this time, he knows it. Eragon is sorry to tell his older brother that they cannot be together. He says it is wrong. He says they cannot love each other. He says that they will die if they stay together.

Eragon says these things while Murtagh weeps.

"I need you," says the older brother.

And his blue-eyed boy replies, "I can't be with you, Murtagh."

His shoulders sink with a strangled little cry, and the elf-boy presses his palms to the sides of his brother's face. He gives him one last kiss, full of sadness, and walks away without looking back.

Murtagh sinks into the mud, hoping that he'll drown in it. He prays that some stranger will come and slice his neck wide open, or that Eragon will have mercy and return to kill him. Murtagh sobs like a baby in the rain as his love continues walking farther and farther away.

He blinks twice, returning to the cell in Urû'baen that holds him.

When he pulls out of his reverie, Murtagh thinks it is very strange that all of his daydreams are so tragic. He finds that he cannot imagine a happy ending with Eragon, no matter how hard he tries.

And more recently he has begun to associate his brother with rain.

But he decides to ignore the end of his fantasy. He focuses instead on Eragon's wet clothes and dripping hair, and they way his hands slide against his skin. He likes the imaginary wooded smell of his brother, and the constant patter of the shower on his flesh.

Murtagh thinks the rain is beautiful, except when people are crying in it.

* * *

+ 4 +

_If I could be like that_

_I would give anything_

_Just to live one day_

_In those shoes._

_ "Be Like That" – 3 Doors Down_

He has a very handsome face.

He has a deep, soothing voice.

He has a strong grip and wide smile.

He could cut his long, ragged hair and brush it away from his dark eyes to become a real gentleman. He could veer away from his usual blacks and reds, and start wearing the purple of nobles or the forest greens of elves. He could walk the palace halls, giving advice and encouragement to his people, and everyone would love the faith he exuded.

He could fly across the countryside, brandishing his Rider's blade and defending his land. Thorn could roar and breathe his frightening fire, leaving people speechless in their awe of him. He could fight and always win, and return home without ever complaining about his injuries, and the people would love their prince-warrior more for it.

He could hold the hand of a fine woman like Nasuada, or mysterious elf like Arya, or even a strange witch like Angela, and the world would rejoice that he had found someone to love. Except for the young ladies, of course, because they would all be too jealous, but they would recover in time and come to love him again.

Murtagh knows that he is capable of these things. It lies within the duality of his nature to be the greatest hero and greatest villain of all time, but as it stands, he is much more likely to replace Galbatorix than to defeat him.

Perhaps it is his own fault.

Perhaps he should have tried harder to retain his innocence. Perhaps he should have worked harder to change the world's mind about him. Perhaps he should have been less stubborn.

Although he never wore his face kindly, Murtagh knows that he could have. He did not have to speak so sharply to the few people that gave him a chance. He knows his heart is not easily broken, but perhaps it's because he never gave it the chance to be.

The more he thinks about it, he knows that his life would have been emptier this way. If he had the gentleness, he would be too weak to survive. If he had the reputation, he would have no challenge to overcome. If he had the women, he would not have Eragon.

Murtagh would rather close himself off from these other paths of his life. He would rather leave open a single window of hope for himself, a single "maybe" that would probably never occur, just in case his fortune changes.

He would rather be a monster with Eragon than a king without him.

* * *

+ 3 +

_Your sorry eyes, they cut through the bone. _

_They make it hard to leave you alone,_

_Leave you here, wearing your wounds._

_Waving your guns at somebody new._

_ "Lost Cause" – Beck_

Murtagh tries to throw the sword, but his hand grips it so tightly his palm bleeds. Galbatorix desires Zar'roc, so Murtagh must deliver it to him against every fiber of will in his body.

Thorn is shaking in shared frustration as his large wings pump up and down.

Eragon is still kneeling on the great brown plateau of the Burning Plains, now without his weapon, trying to process the disgusting things Murtagh told him. He was bound to speak those words with a barbed tongue, for Galbatorix had willed it. He would have never revealed their relation, his new powers, his Empire-skewed worldview. Galbatorix wanted Eragon broken, and Murtagh was the man for the job.

He lets out a bellow, stretching his vocal chords until his scream ends in a raspy moan. He rips off his helmet, hurling it to the ground far below. He grunts as he tears off his greaves and undershirt, still clutching Zar'roc because he is unable to release it. The muscles of his neck clench when his dark eyes lift to the sky. Murtagh screams and Thorn shakes and they cannot banish the thought of Eragon and Saphira from their minds.

_His eyes, his eyes. His face… he hurts. He hurts because of me. _

He arches his back, tensing until his ribs want to shatter, letting hot tears streak down his dirty cheeks. He hates his new sword. He hates his dead father. He hates his master.

Murtagh wants to cradle his brother in his arms, brush back his hair, and whisper his fears away. He just wants to prove that he is capable of love, that he does not need to make everyone around him suffer.

As they approach Urû'baen, he slumps forward in his saddle, cursing his life to his last breath. His fingers ache, his throat burns, and he shamefacedly wipes his eyes.

He imagines Eragon reuniting with the Varden, retelling his sorry tale of defeat at the hands of his newly discovered brother. He pictures the creeping blush of embarrassment that accompanies every low-spoken word. He hears Saphira try and fail to express her condolences while he constantly replays his breakdown in his mind.

Murtagh wants to console his brother, but he knows his words are made for hurting.

New tears arrive. He makes himself sick.

* * *

+ 2 +

_What a monstrous sight he makes_

_Mocking man's best friend,_

_And both the wolf and lion crave_

_The same thing in the end._

_ "The Lion and the Wolf" – Thrice_

Regret has never coursed through his veins with such ferocity, leaving him quaking with fear in his dream-state.

Eragon circles him with Brisingr shining blue in his grip. A shadow nips at his heels, creeping slowly up his calves until his body is covered by the dark magic. He looks at Murtagh, who kneels in the dust at his feet, bound by some spell to keep him still.

The shadow speaks both to Eragon and through him.

"For your dead master, my prince," it says. "For his dragon," the voice hisses. As if sleepwalking, Eragon nods. His voice is flat when he replies, "For you, my king," and the shadow pulls him closer.

Struggling to move, Murtagh tries to scream for mercy, but a pair of hands roughly clamps over his mouth from behind. The hissing voice of Galbatorix himself says, "You've served your time, boy." He turns enough to see that there is nothing with a physical hold on his body, but he too is restrained by the translucent shadow.

Eragon, still dripping in darkness, brings Brisingr up and across in one swift motion.

Murtagh's chest is rent from hip to shoulder, mimicking his back.

Golden coins drop to the ground out of his gaping wound, melodiously clinking as they hit each other. They pour out of his treasure chest body and he lurches forward into them, gasping in pain.

"For Glaedr."

Eragon draws nearer, skin turning paler by the minute, as Brisingr's blade turns a deadly black. It reminds Murtagh horribly of Durza. His brother's voice is obscenely close to melding with the evil king's, and Murtagh forces a frustrated scream from his lungs. He struggles out, "I had no choice, Eragon!"

But the creature before him shrugs lightly, as if hearing a joke that is not particularly amusing, "We have always wanted the same thing, just like your father." It bares its teeth in an almost-smile, "Like our father."

Tormented by the changing voice, Murtagh falls into the golden coins. He notices that they are more like little scales than anything, and he feels the heel of Eragon's boot press into his spine. A sharp prick at the base of his head makes him close his eyes before the final blow.

"For Oromis," says the Eragon voice.

"For the Empire," says Galbatorix. They speak as one, lunging black Brisingr into Murtagh's skull hard enough to stick the point out of his mouth. "We are not different at all," it reminds him.

* * *

+ 1 +

_Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry_

_You don't know how lovely you are._

_I had to find you, tell you I need you_

_Tell you I set you apart._

_ "The Scientist" – Coldplay_

For too long they have been dying, slowly and cruelly and completely. Murtagh is the corpse of a Rider wielding a scarlet blade and his dragon, Thorn, is a starving beast with a stunted mind and borrowed magic. They are powerful still, and valuable to the king, but their spirits would have passed long ago if not for Galbatorix.

Freedom is forfeit, as is peace, but these things seem small compared to the greatest curse that is laid upon them: Galbatorix placed spells that are eternal and irrefutable; among them is the inability of Murtagh or Thorn to commit suicide.

It is Thorn who finds the loophole of this rule, and he sends his Rider the image of a dragon's scaly neck. He ducks his head forward, and the softer red tones of the flesh beneath his scales are barely visible to Murtagh. Thorn then shows him a picture of Zar'roc.

Murtagh's heart breaks.

Thorn's heart breaks.

They understand.

The plan is set, their lives will be over before the night is fallen, and the boy and dragon say farewell in their silent way before writing a note on a piece of parchment.

The letter is tucked into Murtagh's greaves with all the care that a mother would bestow a newborn.

Flying atop his second half, Murtagh sees the Varden camp far beneath them. He sees the thousands of tents and scrambling soldiers. He sees a flash of blue from below, and feels Thorn's heart skip a beat.

They climb higher and higher until Murtagh can hardly breathe from the altitude and cold, and he unsheathes misery from his scabbard. Suddenly a new voice touches the fringes of his consciousness, not needing to be allowed entry. It sounds like a child.

_Love_, says Thorn.

And Murtagh bursts into tears at the sound of his dragon's weak voice. It is the first and last thing that Thorn ever speaks.

_I love you, too,_ cries Murtagh.

The dark-haired boy throws his entire weight into the thrust of Zar'roc, and he feels a tangible snap when Thorn's mind disappears from the world.

Murtagh aches. His heart is gone.

He sees the world in frightening new shades of emptiness, and his missing half quickly eats away at the rest of his memories. The incompleteness is overwhelming him.

He plummets, still in the saddle of his dead dragon. From beneath him, Saphira and Eragon fly up to do battle.

Through the clouds, in less than a second, Murtagh's teary eyes lock with Eragon's. In that beautiful moment, Murtagh lays bare his soul, showing every drop of anguish he contains. Eragon's face falls when he realizes that only the hilt of Zar'roc is not shoved into the base of Thorn's head.

They pass each other without a word.

Just before he crashes to the ground, Murtagh thinks it is appropriate to see Eragon rising as he is falling. It is suitable and it is right- it is the way of his world.

A sickening thud ends it all.

The note written in Murtagh's thin script barely unfurls on the windy plain, threatening to blow away.

It reads:

_Saphira and Eragon,_

_Please, forgive what we have done. You are the best in us. _

_Take care of our hearts,_

_Thorn and Murtagh_

His leather greaves keep it tightly bound until a young man finds it. He reads it long after the bodies have turned cold.

* * *


End file.
